The Saviour and the Saved
by Quillinx
Summary: Sherlock saved John, and John saved Sherlock. Which of the two owes the other more? They've forgotten by now, of course. Random collection of Sherlock oneshots, probably mostly Johnlock.
1. Catch Me Now

**some old johnlock**

**or just friendly if you like**

**it could be either, really.**

**starting a johnlock collection! funfunfun :D**

* * *

John could tell that Sherlock was getting frustrated. Standing up from where he had been crouching on the ground, he looked up to where he could see his friend's slim profile in the window, which was open, allowing the detective's angry voice to drift outside.

"If you would just_ listen_-"

"Sherlock, it's just too far-fetched. This is obviously a suicide, I mean-"

"Not a suicide! How many times do I have to say it!"

"There's a teenage girl lying on the ground, dead, exactly where she would have landed if she had jumped out, with a record of depression and suicidal thoughts! How can this not be a suicide?"

John sighed, trying his best to block out the slender body marked out by yellow tape from his field of vision as he gazed up at the window. It really did look like a suicide. The girl had had counseling, but it hadn't seemed to help, and she had been scheduled to try a fifth therapist this week. She had previously tried to overdose and was also a long-time self-harmer. It all seemed to fit. The broken window, the convincing blood splatters, and the exact placement of the body all seemed to point towards the obvious conclusion. John was actually surprised that Sherlock had been called about something so-seemingly-simple, a breach of security, nothing more.

And yet… somehow, John was reluctant to doubt the word of his flatmate. If Sherlock insisted that it hadn't been a suicide, then he must have a good reason for saying so, the doctor thought, as a fresh volley of voices erupted from the window.

"Well, what else could it be?!" This was Lestrade, sounding very much at the end of his rope.

"Murder, very cleverly done, the killer was obviously not picky about his victims and this was just one way to cover up his tracks." Sherlock's voice was rapid and intense, the desperation to make them understand clear in his voice. It made John wince.

"That's ridiculous!" somebody else- Donovan?- burst out angrily. "I'm starting to think you're just saying this to mess with us, because Lestrade insists on taking the Freak seriously, of course!" Yes, definitely Donovan. John felt his hands clench into fists. Maybe he should go up there before things got too bad, he thought anxiously, glancing at the front door to the house. Get Sherlock out of here. John respected his friend's opinion just as much as anyone, and considerably more than most, in fact, but in this case it really did look like Sherlock was grasping at straws.

"The window's too low for her to have jumped out!" burst out Sherlock. "If she had fallen out that window, she would still have been alive!"

"You've got to be kidding me," drawled somebody who sounded like Anderson.

"I don't _kid_," snarled Sherlock. "She would have broken at least ten bones, probably, but she wouldn't have died, not instantly, not like that, oh, won't you just _listen_?" His voice increased in volume steadily. Yes, time to go up and intervene, John thought nervously.

Doubtful, annoyed murmurs threaded through the window. John clearly heard Sherlock's huff of frustration even from where he was standing.

"If you won't listen, I'll_ show_ you!" John looked up again. What was that supposed to mean? Surely not-

"Sherlock, wait-" Lestrade called as Sherlock appeared at the window, placing one foot on the windowsill.

"What's he-" started Donovan nervously.

"Damn-" swore John, sprinting forwards as Sherlock leaned out the window.

"_Watch!_" he yelled. And let go.

John felt all of the breath leave his chest as he lunged forwards in half-shock and-

Sherlock crashed into him, sending John reeling backwards and the world was wildly-fluttering-black-fabric and John caught a look at Sherlock's face as they smashed into the ground. His pale blue eyes were wide with surprise.

At that moment, the pain didn't matter. But only for that moment. John heard at least one distinct snap that meant broken bones and all he could think was_ idiot idiot idiot_ and then also_ he might be mad at me for not letting him prove it._

He felt Sherlock roll off him and a pale-faced Lestrade bending down over him.

"My God, the idiot," the man muttered, and John wasn't sure if the D. I. was talking about Sherlock or him.

"Is he okay?" he breathed, fighting to sit up and wincing.

"No, he's not_ okay_!" yelled Lestrade, losing the fight for control of his features. "He jumped out a fucking _window_! I can't believe you caught him!"

"I caught him," repeated John dizzily, blinking a few times before closing his eyes. "Caught him…"


	2. Better Than Fireworks

**i wrote this on new year's day while i was in britain ;o but i never posted it**

**so here you go xD**

* * *

"The London New Year's fireworks are always really spectacular," coaxed John. "Are you sure you don't want to go see them?"

"I've told you already," grumbled Sherlock. "Fireworks are a pointless waste of charcoal, sulfur and saltpeter. Why don't you go by yourself?"

"I don't want to go without you," protested John. Sherlock looked up, blinking in surprise.

"What, no useless girlfriend to drag along?" he inquired flippantly.

"I mean, you're my best friend." John said bluntly, ignoring Sherlock's last comment. "We live together. Uh, I just thought..." He trailed off. "It would be nice to see it together is all. It doesn't really matter, I think they'll be showing it on telly."

Sherlock fixed him with a thoughtful, pale gaze. John seemed to squirm under it.

"But it's not quite the same, is it?" Sherlock said, placing one hand on his chin.

"What is?" asked John.

"Watching it on telly," said Sherlock, seeming more like he was talking to himself than to John.

"Yes," agreed John in some confusion.

Presently, Sherlock turned to John.

"It's 11:45," he remarked. John jerked upright and rubbed at his eyes.

"Were you really about to fall asleep?" asked Sherlock, amused. "I would have thought you'd want to 'see the new year in', or whatever it is you sentimental people say."

John gave him an exasperated smile and reached for the remote, flicking through the channels until he reached BBC One. Loud music filled the room. Sherlock winced and reached across John's arm to turn down the volume.

"I still don't see why it matters so much to you," he remarked. John sighed and leaned back into the sofa, watching the brightly flashing colors on screen.

"What matters? The fireworks? They don't really matter," he said, giving Sherlock a tired smile.

"I meant the New Year," said Sherlock, finger-quoting. "The passing of time... the passing of man-made landmarks... What does it all matter in the big picture?" Now he sounded tired as well. "It all just blurs together. This is just a night like any other, only one that people have made a big fuss about."

John sat silently for a second.

"Well, it can't be very special if I'm sitting here with you instead of with my friends at the pub," he remarked. Sherlock looked away, and there was another little silence.

"What if we made something special happen?" John asked, turning to Sherlock slowly. The corner of the screen read 11:55.

Sherlock snorted.

"Like what?" he asked. "What could we possibly do in...four minutes and forty-nine seconds that would make this night different from any other? And don't say watching the fireworks."

"I wasn't going to say that," said John. "And anyways, it's too late for that now." Is it too late for this too?

He considered the implications of what he was about to do. It could risk everything he had ever thought he had known. On the other hand, the new year was starting in three minutes.

What better time to take a risk?

He turned to face Sherlock fully and took his flatmate firmly by the shoulders. His pale blue eyes questioned John, probably wildly deducing the reasons for John's new and surprising behavior.

11:58

John drew Sherlock a little closer to him and swallowed hard, fully aware of what he was about to do. It's not too late to back out now... He made brief eye contact with Sherlock. Oh God yes it is.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Is this okay?" murmured John, his fingers tightening on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Yes," rasped Sherlock, closing his eyes for a brief second before reopening them.

"Good," muttered John, and swallowed again. "Good."

11:59

Sherlock opened his mouth, seemed about to say something.

"Don't talk, you'll screw it all up," said John, and kissed him.

12:00

It was like the whole of the London sky, alive with fireworks, bottled up inside two hearts and exploding into the air. So much tension that John hadn't even known was there simply evaporated, leaving behind a bright, pulsing sensation in his chest that made him feel warm all over.

Sherlock breathed hard and pressed against John, the kiss quickly morphing from light into passionate, both of them holding each other. John felt as if his self couldn't hold all of the emotions racing through him, suddenly exposed to this raw, rushing wave of pure Sherlock.

It was like finding himself all over again.

John broke away first, panting and smiling so hard he thought his face would break. Like two breathless high schoolers, he and Sherlock simply stared at each other, drinking in the sight of each other and the new way they were allowed to see each other.

"I-" John began, and then cut himself off, and looked at the television, which had been playing in the background the whole time. "Drat, we missed the finale of the fireworks." he said lightheadedly, insensibly.

"Never mind that!" said Sherlock impatiently. "John... that was better than fireworks, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," said John, "better than anything!" And he kissed him again.


	3. Simple Romance

**mystrade. that i wrote like ten million years ago.**

**that's really all there is to it**

**xD**

* * *

Lestrade is woken by the sound of Mycroft furiously slamming a hand against the desk in the living room.

_Desk won't take much more of that beating,_ he thinks sleepily. Mycroft is often like this when the political situation is bad. The last thing he thinks before he falls back asleep is that Mycroft will want extra-strong coffee the next morning, with one and a half packets of sugar, and…

…jerks awake. Hell! Lestrade is halfway out of bed before he realizes that no gunfights are going on in his bedroom. It's just Sherlock and Mycroft again.

"And I bet he's been alone all night because the King of France made a bad business deal," snarls Sherlock, who is about an inch from his brother's face.

"Belgium." says Mycroft in the most frigid tone possible. "King of Belgium."

"I wouldn't be surprised if—" Sherlock breaks off as both brothers turn to look at Lestrade.

"You woke him up," reproaches Mycroft, glaring at Sherlock.

Lestrade catches sight of the wall clock, groans loudly, and flops back onto the sheets.

"Take your brotherly arguments outside," he mumbles. "And Sherlock, don't come to this house this early next… time…"

It seems like about five seconds pass before his alarm clock is ringing loudly. Lestrade slaps a hand on the snooze button and winces. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles out of bed, the floor freezing against his bare feet.

In the kitchen, there is a note in Mycroft's slanted, thin handwriting.

_Important business meeting. Ring Anthea no later than 6:00._

Lestrade looks at the kitchen clock and realizes that it's already 6:32. With a snarl of frustration, he tramps back into the bedroom for his cell phone. Why can't Mycroft make his own calls?

After making the call to Anthea, Lestrade hurries out of the house and calls a taxi. As he sits down, his phone begins to ring.

"Hello?"

"Gregory, I left the stove on when I left this morning. Thought you should know." And Mycroft hangs up, obviously disinterested with the whole thing.

Lestrade gives a strangled yelp, causing the taxi driver to look at him inquiringly. He splutters something before diving out of the cab and sprinting back towards the house.

Thank God, nothing is on fire. Lestrade turns off the stove, walks towards the door, stops, double-checks the stove, and then leaves. He is half an hour late for work.

Anderson and Donovan both smirk when he walks through the door.

"Had a pleasant morning?" Donovan inquires innocently.

"It was hell, actually," states Lestrade bluntly.

"Had it coming to you," mutters Anderson under his breath, clearly believing that nobody can hear him. Lestrade chooses not to ignore this jab.

"What did you say?" he asks sharply, staring Anderson down. The man seems to shrink under Lestrade's gaze.

"Nothing," says Anderson.

"No," says Lestrade.

"Only that you had it coming to you," says Anderson reluctantly. "Going out with him. No wonder."

Lestrade has never particularly disliked Anderson, but now he springs out of his chair and is halfway across the table with his fist raised before Donovan grabs him and restrains him, while Anderson backs away from the table so fast his chair topples over backwards.

Thanks to this incident, he eats lunch alone. Upon opening the brown paper bag he had picked up off of the table that morning, he finds that he has taken Mycroft's lunch by mistake. He may be ravenous, but he is not eating fine liver paste on Belgian caviar. No matter how much it costs. He slips the package into the trash can and wonders how Mycroft is managing with a sloppy peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. No doubt he will be blamed for that. Just another thing to look forward to.

The crime Lestrade is assigned to today, a murder, is apparently so intriguing that Sherlock and John arrive before Lestrade. When the DI reaches the crime scene, Sherlock's nose is inches away from the dead person's shoe while John is looking uncomfortable.

"Hello, Greg," he says, causing Sherlock to look up.

"Oh, hello, Lestrade," he says, straightening up with that glint in his eye. Lestrade is used to the deductive glance he throws. Sherlock's eyebrows go up a few millimeters.

"Mycroft's treating you well, I see," he says pointedly. Lestrade follows Sherlock's eyes and realizes that his shirt doesn't entirely conceal the two-day-old bite mark blazing on his neck. John gives a strangled sound and jerks his head sharply, while Sherlock allows himself a snigger. After a few moments reviewing everybody who has seen him this morning—too many—Lestrade grunts and moves past Sherlock to the crime scene, knowing that the consulting detective will most likely have already solved the case.

After several hours of paperwork, Lestrade gets up to go grab a file from his bag. It seems heavier than usual as he carries it back to his desk. Further inspection reveals that this is because it is, in fact, Mycroft's file on publicized rapes in South India. Lestrade leans back in his chair and thinks about the taxi fare for going back to the house.

He opens the front door of the house and almost trips over several files that are upturned in the doorway. Cursing, he hops around them and into the living room, where he collapses on the sofa. Not for long, however, because resting on the sofa are several pairs of handcuffs. He gives a loud yelp and pops off the sofa, handcuffs dangling from the back of his shirt.

Not knowing what to do, he mopes around all evening after finding out that Mycroft has both confiscated his secret stash of cigarettes—probably not nearly as hard to find as Sherlock's!—and finished off the supply of tea in the house. Around dinnertime, he takes a microwaveable package out of the freezer. Or would have, except that yesterday Mycroft threw them all out.

Lestrade makes a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich and sits down at the table. The house seems very large and very empty.

Long after it grows dark out, Lestrade hears the familiar click of the key turning in the door. He looks up as Mycroft silently enters the kitchen, looking beaten down, and normally Lestrade would offer a kiss and comfort, but today he's just so tired and irritated and anyways, shouldn't Mycroft be giving in the relationship too, he thinks.

There is an awkward silence in the room, and Lestrade can almost feel the hurt radiating off of Mycroft as he slinks in the direction of the bedroom. He regrets it, but not enough to go after him.

Lestrade is not a patient person, and after fifteen minutes he can stand it no longer and goes into the bedroom. Mycroft is curled up on the bed, his tall frame fitting into an impossibly small folded-up shape underneath the blankets, and Lestrade feels his heart twinge. He crosses the room and kneels on the bed. Mycroft's eyes open, the grey eyes open and anxious the way Lestrade is sure they never were with anyone else.

Gently, with his pointer finger, he traces down Mycroft's face, and Mycroft closes his eyes again, exhaustion written in the lines around his eyes and mouth. As quietly as he can, Lestrade slides into bed beside him and feels Mycroft's long arm slip around his shoulders. The two settle into a comfortable, puzzle-piece position, and Lestrade can feel Mycroft relaxing, can feel his own muscles untensing as he lets his eyes close. There will be no sex tonight, just a soft, warm comfort that doesn't require words.

It is no simple romance, what the two of them share, or a normal relationship in any sense of the word.

And having known Mycroft, Lestrade doesn't think he will be able to settle for any less, ever again.

It's no simple romance, but it's simple love, and finally Lestrade knows the difference between the two.


End file.
